


"Personal Union"

by Omicheese



Series: Scandinavia Stories [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-20
Updated: 2013-10-20
Packaged: 2017-12-30 00:05:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1011663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omicheese/pseuds/Omicheese
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the end of the Napoleonic Wars, the kingdom of Denmark-Norway was on the losing side.  As part of a peace deal, Denmark ceded Norway to Sweden.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"Personal Union"

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this about four years ago, and I haven't kept up all too closely with the Hetalia fandom recently, so please forgive me my errors. This is regarding the end of the Napoleonic Wars, when [Denmark-Norway](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Denmark-Norway) was split up and [Norway went to Sweden.](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Union_between_Sweden_and_Norway) I researched it as best I could, but Wikipedia doesn’t give me too much to work with.

“Sweden…“ Denmark’s voice was suddenly very gruff, very detached. He was taking his time with whatever he was planning to say. Norway was losing patience. If he was going to strike, he should--but the next thing Norway knew, a rough force slammed into his back, causing him to lose balance. He would have stumbled, but something caught him-- _Sweden?_ “Take good care of him,” Denmark finished his sentence thickly, eyes fixed on the ground.

What was he _doing?_ This wasn’t making any sense. A _war_ was going on, and they were supposed to be negotiating peace with Sweden by this point, not just standing around being confusing! Unless--no. “Denmark, what’s going on?” he demanded, swallowing back the fear that threatened to creep into his throat. He wouldn’t, he _wouldn’t._

Denmark kept staring at his feet, refusing to look Norway in the eye.

 _Impossible._ “You’re--you’re giving me away?” Norway faltered, looking for a sign, _anything_ from Denmark that would tell him he was faking.

He found none. “You... You--“ _Inexcusable._ “I thought we were in this together!” he snarled, attempting to tear away from Sweden’s grip, shoulders starting to shake. “And now you’re stabbing me in the back!”

A hurt look flickered across Denmark’s face before he replaced it with one of forced patience. Did he expect to talk his way out of this? “Look, Norway, we’ve _lost._ Picked the wrong side. We can’t beat England, Prussia _and_ Sweden! They’ve got us completely _surrounded!_ ”

“So _this_ is your idea of peace negotiations?!” Norway challenged, refusing to let it go. Defeat was not an excuse. For _surrender,_ perhaps, but this? _Nothing_ would justify betrayal. “Selling me out?! Denmark--“

“Norway, I can’t do this anymore!” Denmark shouted desperately, flinging out his hands and allowing his shoulders to fall.

“ _You_ can’t do this anymore,” Norway repeated in a hollow voice, barely believing what he was hearing. It had _always_ been ‘we’, right from the very start. _Always._ And suddenly Norway was out of the picture. Did that make him _expendable,_ in Denmark’s eyes? Just something to be cut off in hard times, like Shetland or the Orkneys? “You _hypocrite._ ”

Denmark didn’t take that well. Clenching his fists and tensing his shoulders, he snapped, “Dammit, Norway, I thought you’d get it!”

“Oh, I _get_ it,” Norway scathed, growing bitterer the longer the idea fermented. To think he thought Norway would actually _sympathize_. “So you’re just cutting your losses and running away.” 

Denmark snorted derisively. When he looked up again, he was actually _smiling,_ that cocky, son-of-a-bitch sneer Norway always _hated._ His eyes were cold. “I guess that’s what I’m doing, then,” Denmark taunted viciously. “After all, I just lost the war. And to the victor go the spoils,” he added, gesturing toward Sweden, who remained silent.

Norway’s jaw dropped slightly. His mind could barely even _process_ the offense. “What am I, then, just _territory_ to be _won?!_ ”

“You seriously thought you were ever anything else?” Denmark scoffed, a cruel smirk fixed on his face, laughing at him.

 _That_ did it. How dare he, how _dare_ he?! The impulse for violence boiled in his blood. He had to attack Denmark, knock him to the ground, punch every inch of him, rip him to shreds and tear into him and cry and _why wouldn’t Sweden let the hell go of his arm--_ “You bastard, you lying _bastard!_ I never want to see you again!”

“Heh, better not look across the strait, then!”

_“I hate you!”_

“He’s all yours, Sweden!” Denmark jeered acridly, making a sweeping, mocking bow, but his hands were shaking. Norway must be making him angry. _Good._ But it wasn’t _enough._ He wanted to _break_ that sarcastic calm of his, make it match his nose--to force Denmark to confront him so that he could fight him and _hurt_ him. He deserved it. The _least_ of what he deserved. What he _deserved_ was his _tongue_ ripped out, but Norway was in no position to do anything about it--would Sweden just let _go_ of him already?

But apparently Sweden was getting tired of all this. He gracelessly hefted Norway over his shoulder as though he had been little more than a sack of meal, despite all the kicking and flailing. It nearly made Norway feel sick, to be disarmed and overruled like this. First Denmark goes treating him like a barter chip, now Sweden was handling him like he was cargo. Did he have _any_ value anymore? Not that he’d expected any better from _Sweden,_ but... He couldn’t even see Denmark anymore, only a seemingly endless northern expanse of Swedish battlefields and defeated soldiers. He couldn’t tell if they were his or Denmark’s. He hadn’t had to, not for a long time.

He was _not_ crying. He would _not_ allow himself to cry, not in front of Denmark, not in front of that treacherous dog, he would _not_ give him that kind of satisfaction. _Never._

So instead he thrashed uselessly, cursing Sweden and Denmark and anyone else he could think of with the bitterest curses he could conjure, wishing desperately for the old days when the spoken word had power. Power to curse. Power to bind. Power enough to punish if the word was broken. Nothing more than empty labels that outlived their meaning, now.

He didn’t mean to look back. But Sweden’s house was the other way, so he’d turned around, and Norway was still slung over his shoulder, like a knapsack or a gun. That meant that Denmark was there when Norway looked up. He didn’t _want_ to see him--he could spend the whole rest of his lifetime never once seeing his lying, faithless face again and be perfectly happy. But Denmark was there, and there was nothing Norway could do about it.

He had crumpled in upon himself, fallen to his knees. His shoulders didn’t shake much at first, but the longer Norway watched, the sharper their spasms. He could pretend not to notice, and that was exactly what he was going to do--except that it was harder ignore what he could hear.

It wasn’t fair for him to cry too.


End file.
